


all together now

by knightinbrightfeathers



Series: are you ready for the country (club au) [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Puns, F/M, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Multi, Puns & Word Play, country club au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 13:23:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6425686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinbrightfeathers/pseuds/knightinbrightfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get when you cross Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta? Less Miserable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all together now

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to rhien, for the betaing and for the Arcadia suggestion.

Bossuet’s motto is “never say die”. He thinks it's a good fit: no matter how bad things get (and if you're Bossuet, that's pretty bad), you never give up. Lose your keys? Make friends with the locksmith! Burn the cake? Try that new bakery down the road! Get a black eye from a beginner archer’s elbow? Hit on the cute medic!

“I'm not sure ‘never say die’ is such a good motto,” Joly says. He's holding an ice pack to Bousset’s left eye. Bossuet can definitely do that himself, but that would mean Joly moving away from him, which is against his interests. “What if you need to vanquish an evil henchman? Or talk about singular dice?”

Bossuet doesn’t point out that Joly's taking him too literally. Joly's already anxious. Teasing him would only make it worse.

“What should my motto be, then? I can't just drop it without a replacement,” Bossuet says.

Joly sniffs. “Better no motto at all than a motto that lands you in the medic’s office every other day.”

Bossuet thinks they'll just have to agree to disagree. There are much worse places that he'd go to spend time with Joly, and the med office is quite nice. There are kids’ drawings on the walls from Joly's favorite patients, and a vase of those origami flowers that Feuilly seems to sprout. He's not worried about those, though. Feuilly is tightly wound around Éponine’s little finger.

“My motto’s been with me through thick and thin,” Bossuet says. “Even when I had nothing, I had my motto.”

“Well, it's returned as the Winter Motto . There's nothing left of the motto you used to know,” Joly says.

“But he knew me,” Bossuet says, grinning even though it makes his eye hurt. He can't help it when Joly is this amazing.

“You switched characters!” Joly chides, and smacks him in the arm.

Bossuet clutches his arm dramatically. “You wound me!”

“Your _wound_ wounds you,” Joly says. From what Bossuet can see of him, he's smiling.

“What kind of medic hits a wounded man?” Bossuet cries, ignoring Joly's comment.

“One who feels like he's being wound up,” Joly counters.

“Why, I _wound_ never!” Bossuet says.

“Wound, never, but wounded almost always.”

“I feel like we're just going wound and wound here.”

“You _wound_ me out,” Joly says, giggling.

Mission: help Joly wind down. Mission accomplished. Bossuet shrugs. “I've always felt more like Hawkeye than Captain America or the Winter Soldier, anyway,” he says.

Joly wrinkles his nose. Bossuet can tell because Joly's nose wrinkles are _very_ expressive. They take his whole face with them. “He's kind of dull, isn't he?”

“I forgive you,” Bossuet says gravely, putting his right hand on Joly's shoulder. “Because you haven't read the comics, and Jeremy Renner’s Hawkeye is poorly written. But Clint Barton is my kindred spirit. Caffeine starved, malnourished, covered in bandaids he may be, but never dull.”

“Are you malnourished?” Joly asks, worry creeping into his voice again. He pokes at Bousset’s side, feeling for his ribs. “I could prescribe you vitamins, but really the best way to stay healthy is a balanced diet-”

“I'm not malnourished,” Bossuet says. He's a great cook, actually, when there's someone there to keep him from chopping his finger or setting off the smoke alarm. “And that wasn't the point, Jolllly.”

Joly sighs. “I know,” he says. “I just can't find the first issues of the comics _anywhere_ , and I want to read them in the proper order.”

“I have them all,” Bossuet says. Here goes, here goes… “You could come over and read them with me?”

“Wouldn't you be bored?” Joly asks.

He's so considerate. Bossuet is so lucky, or he will be, if he actually manages to ask Joly out. So far, Bousset’s luck is, as always, decidedly against him.

“Of course not! Not when you're there!” is what Bossuet wants to say. What he actually gets out is, “Of course-” before R walks in  with an eight year old in tow, sniffling manfully. (The eight year old, not R.)

“Excuse us, Nurse Joly,” R says, taking in the scene in front of him. “My pupil here has acquired an injury. I do hope we're not interrupting…?”

“Of course not!” Joly says, smiling at the boy standing by R’s hip.

R exchanges a glance with Bousset, who shrugs. R's responding grin is very sympathetic.

Joly’s patients always occupy his ultimate attention, which is one of the things Bossuet loves about him. Right now, though, the moment is ruined.

“Hey, Joly?”

“Mmhm,” Joly says. “Where does it hurt, _mon trognon_?”

 _My heart,_ Bossuet thinks. He's probably been spending too much time with Courfeyrac. “I could bring the comics to you at work, if you like?” Better to cut his losses while he can.

“Yes, thank you,” Joly says absently. “What is your name?”

“Hamid,” the boy says.

“Let me see your knee, Hamid. It doesn't look too bad after all, does it?”

As Joly calms the little boy down, Bossuet backs out of the room. R pats him on the shoulder when he passes. You could always rely on R to commiserate with pathetic adoration.

 

 

Joly can't believe himself. He had the opportunity to spend time with Bousset, after work, alone, right there in his hands, and he let it fall to the floor like so many spoiled tongue depressors. And, like those tongue depressors, the opportunity is now useless. Joly is going to die alone, surrounded by comic books which he will never return because they will be all he has to remind him of his true love. 

One of his true loves. He might end up spending his old maid hood (old manhood? Old lad hood?) staring at the ironic motivational posters that Chetta gave him as well. Maybe he'll alternate, just to relieve the boredom.

But he can't despair yet! Because Musichetta, the most beautiful, clever, witty and talented woman in the world, is standing next to him. She likes puns, for Socrates’s sake. And she's waiting for him to finish rambling.

“-so I thought, well, if it's good enough for Houdini it's good enough for anyone, but it's much more fun doing these things with other people, I mean usually I'd take Jehan   but I thought maybe you'd like to go with me?”

“To a séance?” Musichetta asks.

“To _debunk_ a séance,” Joly corrects. “One time I managed to figure out the string arrangement the medium used to make things float around, it was _awesome._ ”

“It sounds mean, Joly,” Musichetta says. “You're spilling the beans on these people's livelihood.”

“Oh, no, I never _tell_ anyone!” Joly says, horrified. “I'm not out to discredit people! It's just so ingenious, you know? And maybe… maybe you can actually contact the dead.” Joly shakes his head, blushing. “I know it's silly.”

“I don't think it's silly at all,” Musichetta says. “I learned how to tell fortunes because I think there's something beyond this plane of existence.”

 _Wow_. “You tell fortunes?” Joly asks, eyes wide as they can go.

“Not very well,” Musichetta says.

“I don't believe that,” Joly tells her, getting a laugh in response. “Besides, I'm not a very good séance debunker, but it's still fun.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “So…”

“Séance debunking isn't really my thing, I think. I'd rather not have my delusions upset.” Musichetta gives Joly a smile that's mischievous under the fondness. “Maybe some other time,” she says, touching his hand. “Something we'd both like.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Joly says, nodding seriously.  He watches her walk away.

He's never going to wash his hand ever again.

Okay, he will, but that's only because of hygiene. He treats _injuries._

 

 

All right, so Joly turned him down. Sometimes your heart breaks! It happens! Besides, it wasn't really a complete rejection, more like a…

Yeah, Bousset’s got nothing. He knows how to take a hint. Contrary to what Hollywood would like him to think, pursuing someone who isn't interested in you isn't romantic at all. Bossuet learned that one in high school, when he got punched in the face by someone who thought he was working for their drug dealer.

Still, there are plenty more fish in the sea. One fish, that is.

The music from inside the classroom stops, and Bossuet can hear kids’ chatter. He smiles involuntarily - kids are his favorite people to train, even if he doesn't get that many - and pushes himself off the wall.

One of the moms waiting outside the practice room squints at him suspiciously. “I've never seen you here before,” she says. “Are you Claire’s father?”

“No, I work here,” Bossuet says, flashing her a reassuring smile. It doesn't really work, the charm offset by his black eye. “I'm the archery instructor. I'm waiting for Mademoiselle Prieto.”

The mom gives him the stinkeye again, but before she can say something else - and Bossuet can guess what it would be, with his brown skin and the scars and bruises peppering his skin- the door opens and a flood of children comes out. A child in a violently purple bodysuit distracts Madame, and Bossuet is left to wait for the parents to scoop up their offspring and leave.

Musichetta catches his eye somewhere in the middle of it all, grinning when he winks at her. Before long, but still far too long in Bousset’s opinion, the last parent whisks away the last five year old, and Musichetta packs away her little music player and speakers and locks up.

Bossuet offers her an arm. “Mademoiselle Prieto. May I walk you to the…?”

“The staff locker room? You may, Monsieur Lesgle,” Musichetta says. She links her arm with his, and it's a little awkward because Musichetta is _tall_ , but Bossuet wouldn't give it up for the world. “What happened to your eye?”

“Got clipped by a stray elbow,” Bossuet says ruefully.

Musichetta shakes her head. “Only you, Boss. Does it hurt? ”

“Not too bad. I've had worse, and I got ice on it right away.” Musichetta’s expression is very understanding. “How was the class?” Bossuet asks.

Musichetta smiles. “Good, actually. Do you know how rare it is for four year olds to follow instructions?”

“I'm guessing very,” Bossuet says.

“I think this is the second class this year that I've managed to marshal them into some kind of order.” Musichetta laughs quietly. “It doesn't really matter. As long as they're having fun and their parents get to coo at the end-of-year show, I'm doing my job right.”

“Well, they all love you, as you know,” Bossuet says. “Personally I'm glad that I don't have to make up a routine.”

“You'd say ‘take a bow’ and they'd trip over their own feet trying to figure out what you mean,” Musichetta agrees.

“I don't know, I think they'd understand. I like to think of myself as a straight shooter,” Bossuet says.

Musichetta raises an eyebrow at him. “How straight?”

“As a boomerang,” Bossuet says solemnly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Very comforting,” Musichetta tells him. “I feel as safe as Marian in Sherwood Forest.”

“I'm more of a Friar Tuck than a Robin Hood,” Bossuet says, tapping his bald pate. “Speaking of which, would you like to go to dinner with me?”

“How is that ‘speaking of which’?” Musichetta asks.

“Tuck into something?” Bossuet suggests.

“ _Honteux_ ,” Musichetta says. “You have crossed the pun line.”

“But not any other line, I hope.”

“Rest easy, Robin Hood. You're doing fine.”

“Will I have an answer, Maid Marian?” Bossuet asks, making his tone as ridiculously courtly as possible.

They've reached the locker room. Musichetta unhooks her arm from Bousset’s. “I think my answer… my answer will have to be not yet.”

“Not yet?” Bossuet repeats. “Is there a yes in the future?”

Musichetta nods decisively. “There is. Now, if you'll excuse me?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Bossuet says, and walks away with a spring in his step.

 

 

Things have come to a pretty pass when a girl has to resort to tricking her potential boyfriends to get things going properly. As it were. As it is, Mr. Valjean is very cooperative, especially when Cosette nudges him and Louison adds that there's nothing else for you to do today, Monsieur, I'll close up the office, don't you worry…

Women get the job done. Well, women and nonbinary people. _If we relied on men to do all the work,_ Musichetta’s mother used to say, _we'd still be washing in cold water and using iceboxes._

Musichetta sits and waits. And waits. And - it's not that long, but when she catches herself tapping out _Goodbye Stranger_ on the only clear spot on Valjean’s desk, she admits to herself that she's not as calm as she'd like to be. That's a good sign, right? She's always been a little too stubborn for her own good, and the butterflies in her stomach could be her flight instinct. It must be such a shriveled thing by now.

“Hi, Louison,” Musichetta hears Bossuet say. Trumpet, really. Valjean’s office is wonderfully insulated from the generally inescapable noise of the MAYR Center, although he usually institutes a literal open door policy, ruining the effect. “Is Monsieur Mayor ready to see me?”

Musichetta can just make out Louison’s response. “Not just yet.”

There's quiet, for a little while, and murmurs, and then, in Joly’s voice, high enough that Musichetta feels a little sorry for the charade:

“Are we in trouble?”

Murmurs, again, and Louison’s voice, filled with barely suppressed laughter: “Fraternizing? Exactly the opposite. Go in, you two.”

Musichetta barely has time to straighten up in her seat before the door opens and Bossuet and Joly are making deer-in-the-headlights eyes at her.

“Chetta?” Joly says, uncertain. “Where's, uh…”

“Valjean went home twenty minutes ago,” Musichetta says. “Sit down.”

They take their seats. “I feel like I've been called to the principal’s office,” Bossuet jokes weakly.

“The _principle_ is different,” Musichetta says, making them both relax immediately . “It's come to my attention that both of you, while being excellent people in every other respect, have a problem with approaching an issue in a direct matter.”

“What issue?” Joly asks.

“This is direct?” Bossuet asks.

“Perhaps Chetta will get _directly_ to the point-”

“Perhaps we need to _point_ her in the right _direct_ ion-”

“Boys,” Musichetta interrupts, “there's a time and a place.”

They give in with good grace. Joly even gives her a regal little nod, which makes her smile. They want direct? She'll give them direct.

“I have tickets to a play this Thursday,” Musichetta says. “A futuristic interpretation of Arcadia.”

They eye her, and then each other, Bossuet with the air of someone faced with a new kind of gummy bear and Joly with the air of someone greeting the IKEA furniture building people.

“How many tickets?” Joly asks finally.

Musichetta smiles. “Three.”

Joly lets out a squeak, blushing furiously when Musichetta knocks her feet against his. “I like Tom Stoppard.” He glances at Bousset, hope shining out of every pore.

A grin slowly spreads across Bousset’s face. “Well,” he says, in the tone of one who is savoring a truly awful pun, “I suppose we could _Stoppard_ by for a spell.”

Oh, there will be time for hashing all the details out, and drawing boundaries, and mistakes and fights and all sorts of messes. But first, she's going on a date.

 

 

“What are you so happy about?” Jehan asks. They're one to talk, sitting on the little kitchenette counter and swinging their feet as if they haven't a care in the world.

Jehan’s socks have little omelettes on them. Musichetta would be jealous, if she weren't in such a good mood this morning.

“I,” she says, over the gurgle of the coffee machine, “was on a wonderful date last night.”

“Reeeeeally,” Jehan drawls. “With Joly or Bossuet?”

“Both of them,” Musichetta says proudly.

Jehan fistpumps. “You are a queen among ballerinas, Musichetta.”

 

“How so?” Musichetta asks.

Jehan looks around at the empty staff room. “You just won me a week's supply of Turkish Delight, and you're in a relationship now, so I'll tell you.” They lean in, regarding Musichetta with mock gravity. “What's your favorite type of sweet?”

 

 

Éponine, to her credit, accepts the addition to the betting pool without even blinking.

“And then,” she says, “there was one.”

“Don't you mean two?” Cosette asks, scribbling in her notebook.

“No, one as in one couple,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yes, but they're two _people_ -”

“What about Bahorel?” Combeferre asks.

“I think he has a girlfriend-”

“Isn't she a medical clown?”

Éponine sighs and leans her head on Feuilly’s shoulder. “Morons.”

Feuilly smiles at his sandwich. “You love them, though.”

“Maybe,” Éponine concedes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Beatles song "All Together Now".  
> Arcadia is a play, written by Tom Stoppard, that takes place both in the 19th century and in the present day. Now imagine that half of it is in the future instead- that's what BMJ are going to see.  
> Those socks Jehan wears? I have 'em. They look like this: http://www.forever21.com/images/default_750/00131123-02.jpg  
> "Mon trognon": my apple-core. Oh, French people. Never change.  
> Louison is bigender, for anyone confused by Musichetta's train of thought.  
> Joly is Korean. Bossuet is French Moroccan. Musichetta is black; she is also trans.  
> The electric hot water heater was invented by Ida Forbes, and the modern electric refrigerator was invented by Florence Parpart. Other inventions by women include Liquid Paper, the windshield wiper, CCTV, central heating, Kevlar, and science fiction. Boom.  
> In case anyone was worried, Bossuet's scars and bruises come from bad luck and clumsiness, not abuse or self harm.


End file.
